Well, to paraphrase Miss Channing (Miss M. Channing, that is, darlings,
not Miss C.), "a funny thing, a person's career."
Through no fault of my own, except that it's my job, I find myself this week photographed in the local must-read English paper, feverishly grabbed by socialities across this quiet seaside capital (a) to see if for once for God's sake there's a decent movie in town, (b) to see if by any chance for God's sake someplace new to eat let alone to get a decent drink at has by some strange magic opened up, and, if my experience to date today is any guide, (c) to memorize each and every photograph so that you can walk up to perfect strangers and say - "oh, I saw you in
The Week!"
I wouldn't mind so much if I didn't, in the photograph in question, look exactly like the famous
LOLrus (sans bukkit) in a suit. Somehow my self-image has gotten stuck, apparently permanently, 'round about '84, but when I steel myself and take a good, long, dangerous look in a mirror, I realize that the auburn curls are a thing of memory, and ditto, alas, the jawline. If I'm not careful, I'll find myself entered against my will by false friends into a Laura Hope Crews lookalike contest and shall lose the last remnant of my illusions.
Fortunately, there is a major saving grace to
la vie in the Middle East: they like themselves some big boys here, not to mention going for the older gentleman, and so as a proud Large American
d'un certain age, I feel at times rather like, well, like I did in '84 as a slight young thing. If it weren't for the very, very good thing going between Mr. Muscato and me (more of him anon), I'd be in danger of becoming what my late, sainted grandmother would have called a Fast Baggage.
Tehran, 1942: a pensive, Klimtische moment
